


better to burn than to fade away

by SparkleMoose



Series: Portrait of a Dead Man [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Galahdian Culture (Final Fantasy XV), Gen, Good Titus Drautos | Glauca, Poorly Written Battlescenes, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:09:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24211135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SparkleMoose/pseuds/SparkleMoose
Summary: Atlas has made up his mind, he has to do something to ensure that this Libertus (not his, never his.) has a happy ending. And if he has to join the Glaive to do that, well, it gives him something to do at least.
Series: Portrait of a Dead Man [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1612063
Comments: 13
Kudos: 107





	better to burn than to fade away

The thing no one tells you is that there is a story before every other story. That life itself is an cycle of stories, of tales told to you and stories that you tell others. Life is made of song and rot, of children pressing their bare feet to the jungle floor and running. Wild. Joyful. One could argue that children are where their parents place their stories, their burdens.

Atlas thinks of the ruined edges of his own magic and thinks that perhaps he ought to hate his father. That perhaps he should hate the gods for laying such a cruel fate on his family. Instead he thinks of children and wonders when it is a child outgrows the shadow of their lineage.

* * *

Atlas does not think of children when he paints. He doesn’t think of stories, of songs and endings either. Perhaps he should, he figures, the lightning scars jagged on his hands and arms reminding him of what he is. Of who he was and of his own endings. Perhaps he should pay more attention to endings, to the rubbed raw feeling of waking up one morning after death and realizing that you have to go on. That the universe isn’t finished with you yet.

Atlas does not think of children when he paints, expect when he does. When he thinks of the children of his home. Of their bright smiles and how they danced around bonfires with their parents. Atlas does not think of children expect when he adds yellow to his brush and mixes it with white to form dappled sun streaming through the trees.

Atlas thinks of children. Of the children of Tenebrae and Galahd living under Imperial rule and he wonders how many traditions they have already lost. He takes a step back, looks at the painting still wet with sunlight and tilts his head to the side, examining it.

He does not know much of Tenebrae, but he knows the feeling of loss. Of sorrow and rage etched deep into your bones each time you learn of another terrible thing happening to your people. Atlas knows the feeling of helplessness, of being able to do nothing but stand and watch as your people fight and die.

He knows what it’s like to have people die for him.

He wishes he didn’t.

* * *

The painting is finished and when Atlas presents it to the noble - Aqua Scientia - Aqua says nothing for a long time.

For a moment, Atlas wonders if he’s going to be kicked out. If his painting burned and destroyed. He wouldn’t allow that of course, the painting is still his after all, still belongs to Atlas, and he won’t stand for his work being turned to cinders.

Aqua turns to Atlas, his eyes glazed over with unshed tears. 

“Thank you,” the lord says, and grips Atlas’ hand fiercely, “Thank you. I know not how you managed to embrace Tenebrae in your art but- Thank you.”

“We should all have a piece of home with us,” Atlas says, all too aware of the beads in his air. Agate and opal, one in memory of Libertus and the other his own. 

“Yes,” Lord Scientia says, dropping his hand, “We should.”

The painting itself, Atlas learns, is placed in a place of honour in Lord Scientia’s office. It is a painting of a grove in Tenebrae’s forest. A scene of one of their festivals honouring Titan taking place within the grove and yet there is no priestess there, no Messenger or Astral present. There are just people, flowers in their hair and feet bare as they laugh and dance.

There are just people, rejoicing in the face of adversity.

* * *

Atlas receives more commissions after his painting for Lord Scientia is made public.

He refuses all of them. The scars on his hands and the bead in his hair reminding him that he is not what he once was.

That he will never be who he was before again.

* * *

Atlas knows war. Lucis itself is a country built on it, and while Galahdian’s loved peace they were no strangers to war. Atlas himself has lived through war and was reborn in the middle of one, and while he might have been called a king once, might have spent seven years locked in a Wall of his own making the knowledge that he is strong enough to fight again almost makes him giddy.

It shouldn’t be any surprise then, that Atlas decides to join the Glaive.

* * *

In Little Galahd, in the slums where Atlas lives, there is a temple. It’s hardly a grand thing of marble and gold like they have near the Citadel but Ramuh has never demanded that of his people. He has only demanded a safe place to rest and for justice to be delivered to those who demand it.

Perhaps that’s why Atlas found his feet leading him there, to the temple of granite that finds itself tucked between two small apartment buildings. Perhaps that why when he opens the door he feels a sense of home settle deep in his bones. The air in the temple smells of jasmine and sea salt and it reminds him of the house of his grandfather. 

His grandfather had lived close enough to the sea that the villagers had called him ‘foolish’. The ocean is dangerous after all, dangerous enough that even those who make their living from it only set foot on their boots after prayers and covered in charms.

Atlas’ grandfather had a collection of charms to ward off the rage of the sea. It did nothing to help him one night when a storm came and ripped his house from the ground and took him with it.

Atlas may not have met any gods, but he knows enough about them to know that they cannot be trusted. Still, Atlas enters the temple, takes note of silence of how once he rounds the corner he comes across a shrine to Ramuh. He takes note of the gem encrusted wall behind it, of how above the statue dedicated to the Storm Lord he can see the beads of the six main clans set into the stone.

The agate in his hair feels heavy, and he wonders if he should introduce himself to Libertus. It is what is expected of him, to introduce himself to the leader of the clan that had taken him in as their own. To make himself known as an Ostium in Insomnia. But Atlas feels the weight of the opal in his hair, the bead from his mothers Clan, minor and unimportant, fishers and artists and priests all of them, and Atlas can’t help but wonder if he really wants to be known as an Ostium here without his Libertus.

He knows that his Libertus would want that. Would want him to be accepted into his community and Clan and that more than anything his Libertus would want Atlas to have a family. A support group but-

But Atlas’ Libertus isn’t here, and Atlas will never see him again. And yet he’s still going to join the Glaive, still going to do what he can to ensure that Libertus’ family doesn’t betray their king. That they don’t die. It’s the least he can do for the man that watched him die.

For the man that never strayed from his side. And Atlas knows he won’t be thanked for it. Knows that this is a mission without reward but he can’t do nothing. He can’t let this Libertus suffer simply because Atlas couldn’t muster up the strength to visit him.

Atlas approaches the statue of Ramuh’s staff that sits before the Clan Wall. For a moment he thinks he can hear his grandfathers voice urging him not to fear storms nor the sea. He hears a gasp, feelings light burning through his hands and arms and when he brings them up to look at them he can see the telltale lightning scars on his hands and arms glowing a brilliant blue.

They look like cracks, like jagged marks left by magic. Fitting, Atlas thinks even as he looks up and meets the eyes of the priestess that had gasped, considering that they were left by magic.

“Hello,” Atlas says and he smiles at them, “I was wondering if you had any advice.”

* * *

Kore, the priestess that Atlas had startled, is more than willing to hear him out. He does not tell her who he is, what he has done. He does not tell her of the magic in his veins or the feeling that he’s lacking something.

Instead he tells her that he’s died twice, that he knows why he’s here. He tells her that although he knows what to do he felt as though something had led him there, to this small temple in the slums.

“I do not know why I came,” Atlas says, “I’ve only heard of this place but- I didn’t actually know where it was.”

Kore hums and stirs the pot of stew she’s making for the nearby orphanage. “Ramuh has guided you,” Kore decides and she must feel how unimpressed Atlas is, “Why else would you be here? Why else would you bear the marks of the Twice-born? The fact that they reacted to the being in the presence of Ramuh’s Altar is proof enough that your words are true.”

“I don’t need guidance,” Atlas argues.

Kore turns to him and raises an eyebrow. “Then why did you come?”

“I was-“ Atlas stops, but something in Kore’s expression bides him to continue, “I was lonely,” he admits finally, “No one else knows. And I’m not sure I want them too.”

“You came for understanding,” Kore says, “And companionship. We are a community, no one needs to be alone.” Her eyes alight on the beads in Atlas’ hair. “Tell me, were you of Clan Ostium or Chthonia originally?”

“Chthonia. I was given the agate when-“ The words are stuck in his throat. “-When I was dying. My bond brother, he gave them to me. Told me that no one should die alone.”

“The Chthonia’s were guides to Etro’s Garden once,” Kore muses, “And the Ostium’s have ever been protectors. You’ve a legacy to live up to.”

“Yeah,” Atlas says and thinks of his father’s line, “I suppose I do.”

* * *

Atlas journeys to the Temple more often then. He finds himself volunteering with Kore and aiding her with whatever she needs help with. It helps steady his nerves, and when he finds himself actually applying and being accepted to the Kingsglaive he spends hours in front of the statue of Ramuh’s Staff; wondering if he’s made the right choice.

Atlas will admit, the actual process for joining the Glaive is more thorough than his Libertus had him believe. There’s interviews and background checks. There’s a test to see if he’s compatible with the King’s magic and Atlas’ own magic, so used to being in constant use, settles deep in his chest when he touches Regis’ magic for the first time. Atlas’ magic hides itself from the magic of his father, not daring to reach out and let himself be known to Regis.

The official conducting the test looks shocked at how well Atlas takes in the magic and Atlas shrugs even as his own magic struggles to make itself known.

* * *

In hindsight, Atlas should have known that sooner or later he’d run into Libertus. The two of them are Glaives, of course they would run into each other sooner or later. He expects it to be later of course, given that none of the squad leaders are in charge of things such as basic training, rather Gustco is in charge of training and Atlas has a brief moment when he sees when he remembers the last time he fought beside the other man.

He shakes it off quickly, this Gustco doesn’t know him. Will likely only see Atlas as another Glaive he trained. There will be no more snarky conversations over shitty food. No more laughing with each other as they barely make it out alive of a fight they had been thrown into. They will no longer give each other hope in a world of darkness and that aches. But at least, Atlas thinks, that he has more time to prepare to face Libertus.

* * *

What Atlas doesn’t expect is to run into Libertus at the temple of all things. Yet there Libertus is, Ulric and Lazarus with him and Atlas barely has time to wonder why the three of them are here when Kore steps out of the back room and sees him.

“Atlas,” Kore calls, ignoring the three Clan leaders and stepping toward Atlas, “You’re just in time! The kids are waiting for you.”

Atlas smiles, a bit sheepish. “Sorry,” he apologizes and tries to ignore the way Libertus and Luche are staring at him, “I got accosted by few people who wanted a chance to spar.” 

Kore laughs at him, loudly and without restraint. “I see you’re still causing problems,” she teases him ushering him into the back room and ignoring the others in the temple, “I’ll deal with those three, you focus on the children.”

“Sounds like a deal,” Atlas agrees and is grateful that he had a chance to change out of his uniform before heading to the temple as he steps into a room full of children.

He smiles at them, the tension in his shoulders easing out of him as he steps in front of the large canvas that stands front and centre in the room. He’s always enjoyed teaching, always enjoyed stroking the blaze of artistic skill in the next generation. And while Atlas hasn’t been able to go that much considering his new job, he still makes time for it when he knows that he’ll be free.

He pushes the thought of Libertus and the others from his mind and sets to work teaching with a smile.

* * *

Here is the thing, Luche is a soldier. He has been a soldier for years now, has fought and bled and killed for king and country and the hope that one day he’ll be able to see Galahd again. Be able to step onto the isles and feel the storm against his skin.

Here is the thing, Luche is a soldier yes, but before that, before his home was taken and ravaged by imperial forces he had been an artist. And if he keeps an eye on the art scene then that’s his business. No one needs to know about it. A part of Luche thinks his comrades would think that he’s soft for taking an interest in art of all things so he keeps his oldest passion to himself.

Needless to say, when a young painter from Galahd had been commissioned by a noble in the Citadel to paint for him Luche had been interested. It wasn’t often someone from Galahd made such a presence on the art scene and so Luche had found the artists social media and online portfolio and he may have spent more than a few days going over each painting. Each sketch that the artist, that Atlas Chthonia had available online.

Atlas was skilled, and it was this skill that was only made more evident when Aqua Scientia posted the painting he had commissioned from Atlas. Atlas had, despite never having been to Tenebrae, captured the spirit and energy of the kingdom. Or so Aqua had claimed.

Luche didn’t know whether that was true or not, but he could admit that there was something fascinating about the painting. Something old and rebellious seemed to dance in each brush stroke and Luche was excited to see what else the painter would make. And then, just as suddenly as Atlas had come onto the art scene, he stepped out of it.

It infuriated Luche in a way, when he found out that Atlas had chosen to join the Glaive. Why, Luche had wondered, why would someone able to make a living off of their art chose to join the military? Surely the Glaive would chew Atlas up and spit him out.

But Atlas had stayed, had managed to rank among the top of his class in training and Luche still wondered why Atlas chose to change his career so suddenly. Atlas had garnered Luche’s interest and while their Captain would tell Luche to stay out of it Luche could never resist a good mystery.

* * *

When Atlas is done, when the children, paint smeared and grinning, leave with their parents and Atlas sets to cleaning up the door to the activity room in the temple opens and Kore, along with Nyx, Libertus, and Luche step through.

Atlas sighs from where he’s laying paint brushes to dry after washing them and turns to face them. He’s aware of what he looks like, with fingerprints of paint smeared on the once pristine smock he wears. With what he’s certain is paint drying on his cheekbones and his hands still wet from washing away the paint that had almost covered them. Atlas knows that at the moment he looks like anything but a solider.

Still, he doesn’t change from his lax stance, loose and dangerous as always, as he stares down his comrades.

(If he’s actually staring up at them, that’s a detail that doesn’t bear repeating.)

He has no illusions on whether or not the three trained warriors in front of him notice his stance could be threatening.

“Kore,” Atlas greets with a smile, “I was just cleaning up.”

Kore sighs. “I’m aware,” she says dryly, “But Ostium and Ulric here demanded to meet you.” She sighs, put off by the pushy men in her temple and Atlas laughs.

“I’ll take care of them,” he reassures her, “Go do whatever it is you have to do.”

She looks at him, he nods and she narrows her eyes at him before turning and leaving.

Atlas laughs, short and wry. “I wonder why you’re still here?” He asks with a tense smile on his lips. He knows why they wish to meet him, knows that they likely saw the agate in Atlas’ hair when Atlas had entered the temple.

“You know why,” Libertus huffs, annoyance and anger flashing in his eyes as he takes stock of Atlas before his eyes zone back in on the braid in Atlas’ hair and the beads woven within it, “You were to present yourself when you came to the city, Ostium.”

“Chthonia,” Atlas corrects mildly, “The agate was given to me by my brother.”

“Blood or bond?” Luche asks.

Atlas raises a brow. “Does it matter?” He says, “Blood or bond he was still my brother, and this bead was his last gift to me before-“ Atlas cuts himself off, his eyes going to Libertus’ face. Not mine, Atlas reminds himself even as he finds himself yearning for his brother, Not mine. Never again will he be my brother.

His silence seems to make the other Glaives come to their own conclusion and something like understanding dawns on Libertus’ face.

“Bond or blood, the Ostium that gave you that bead thought of you as one of us,” Libertus says, “You’re Galahdian, you know this. You know our traditions and practices, were you ever going to introduce yourself to the clan?”

“I hadn’t decided yet.” There is truth in Atlas’ words that the others pick up on. Nyx huffs.

“As if the Ostium would reject you,” he says wryly, “Ramuh knows they have a tendency of adopting everything that moves.” Luche stifles a laugh as Libertus scowls at them.

Atlas’ smile is a bit more genuine at those words. 

“I’ve noticed,” he says dryly, “I suppose it’s a bad habit of theirs.”

Nyx grins, cheeky and charming. “Yours pick you up too?”

“Of course. I’m fairly certain they go around looking for people to pick up.”

Libertus splutters and Atlas covers his own mouth as he laughs.

“You remind me of him,” Atlas admits when his laughter dies down and he looks at Libertus with old eyes, “I think he would have liked you.”

“Your brother?”

“Yes.” And Atlas smiles. “But now that we’ve been introduced, do you mind me asking what is going to happen now?”

“You’re going to introduce yourself to the rest of the Clan,” Libertus says and Atlas looks amused at the way his tone brokers no argument.

“Is that so?”

“Yes.” Libertus’ voice is stern and unyielding. “I am not letting an Ostium be alone.”

Atlas raises a brow at the others wording. He hadn’t mentioned being lonely of all things to Libertus or any of the other men present.

“Terribly protective aren’t you?”

Nyx laughs at that. “And your Ostium wasn’t?”

Atlas’ smile is faraway and sad. “Oh,” he says, “He was.”

* * *

“Fucker,” Libertus mutters as he follows Luche and Nyx out of the temple, “Motherfucking asshole.”

“I thought he was nice,” Nyx says mildly with a grin on his face. Luche snorts.

“You think anyone who can sass Libertus without feeling guilty is nice,” Luche points out.

“And I’m always right,” Nyx says, before he narrows his eyes, “How did you know he would be here anyway?”

Libertus rolls his eyes. “What doesn’t Luche know?” He demands.

“I found his art class advertised on the temple bulletin board,” Luche says, “And I knew he was an Ostium because I’ve seen him when he was in training.”

“He’s a Glaive?!” Libertus demands, “I thought you said he was an artist!” 

“He was, he changed vocations after painting a piece for Lord Scientia.”

“Why would he do that?” Nyx asks, “He seems too kind for a soldier.”

“He was an artist,” Luche retorts, “Of course he’d seem too kind, too soft for the life of a soldier.”

Libertus grumbles something unsavory about both Luche and Atlas under his breath. “He better not die in the field,” Libertus says, “I have a clan to introduce him too after all.”  


* * *

Atlas has seen battlefields before. He has fought and bled his way through hordes of daemons and MTs on the myriad of occasions he had been outside of Lestallum with his Glaives. Atlas knows how battlefields work, he knows you have to think fast and move faster in order to survive. Perhaps that is why he is one of the only ones that isn’t bounding with nervous energy on their way to a portion of land they’ll be pushing the Empire off of.

“Hey,” Tredd Furia, another friend Atlas’ Libertus had spoke of, “New Glaives listen here. You’re stuck with me as your commander today. Our job is to take the pressure off of the squads under the command of Ostium and Arra.” Tredd looks at them, as if judging their combat abilities with his eyes alone. “Don’t fucking die. It’ll just mean more paper work for me.”

Atlas doesn’t roll his eyes, but he does bite his tongue to prevent the anger welling up in him. A bit more compassion wouldn’t be remiss in his eyes but Atlas can see the old grief in Tredd’s eyes, as though he doesn’t expect any of them to come back.

It’s a measure to protect himself, Atlas realizes, Being dismissive and cruel minimizes the chance of getting hurt.

Atlas sighs, and looks up at the military issue van as thoughts race through his head. He still doesn’t know how he’s going to prevent these Glaives from turning traitors, doesn’t know how he’s going to stop the people his Libertus had cherished so greatly from dying.

He doesn’t know how he’s going to do any of it, but he knows he has to figure out something.

* * *

The flow of battle is a familiar river. One which Atlas knows far too well, for while he had spent the majority of his time during the Long Night holding up a Wall around Lestallum before that, before he had been discovered and before Cid had been able to come up with something that allowed Atlas to hold the Wall up without dying immediately he had spent his time on battlefields, helping his Glaives and his citizens survive and fight off the dark that threatened their lands.

Atlas knows battles. He knows war and suffering like the back of his hand. And so when he fights, it seems as though he glides through the battlefield. His stance and the way his blades deflect and slide through the armour of MTs and the hide of daemons speak of experience, and soon enough he finds himself by Tredd’s side. The two of them working in tandem to keep the attention on themselves and not on the other squad causing havoc inside the portable base the Empire has erected on Cleigne soil.

A flash out of the corner of his eye and Atlas moves in front of Tredd, a barrier springing from his hand just as a Cerberus spits fire at the two of them.

“Chthonia?” Tredd’s voice is surprised from where he stands from behind Atlas.

“Keep the others attention on you, Commander,” Atlas says with a wry grin as he looks at Tredd over his shoulder, “I’ll take care of this one.”

“Chthonia!” Tredd’s reprimand comes too late as the fire from the Cerberus dies down and Atlas throws one of his daggers into air.

He warps too it, and as he falls, he throws it again and the dagger lodges itself inside the skull of one of the Cerberus’ heads as he once again warps to it. The other heads howl in agony and Atlas ducks under the bite aimed at him and thrust his other dagger up and into the jugular of the beast. There’s a gurgle of a daemon dying and when the beast stumbles and falls Atlas yanks both his daggers out of the beast and warps away.

The remaining head is howling in pain but Atlas pays the noise no mind as he lets lose a torrent of ice from one of his hands and the beast freezes and with a snap of his fingers it falls apart.

Sparing no time to relish in his victory, he throws himself back into battle.

* * *

“You idiot!” Tredd seethes as soon as he sees Atlas when the battle is over.

Atlas merely raises a brow. “What did I do?” He asks, all too aware of the audience they’ve gathered. The other leaders of the squads sent on this mission are here and Atlas knows that the Captain will be in attendance any moment.

“You know what you did!” Tredd says, fury coating his voice.

“I know I saved your life, Commander Furia,” Atlas says, his voice even, “I wasn’t aware that was cause for reprimand.”

“Being a reckless asshole is.” 

“Is this about the Cerberus?” Atlas asks, and watches Tredd’s eyes narrow, “You and I both know, Commander, that if one of us hadn’t dealt with it it would have plowed through the remainder of the front line squads.”

“He speaks the truth.” Comes a deep baritone that belongs to neither Tredd nor Atlas and the two Glaives in question turn to face their Captain. “However reckless it was, Chthonia did nothing to defy orders.“  
‘  
“He’s still an asshole,” Tredd says, crossing his arms.

Titus merely raises his eyes. “I won’t do anything to dissuade that notion.”

Atlas rolls his eyes and sighs.

“Chthonia,” Titus says as he turns on his heel and moves to walk away, “Leave the Cerberus to someone more experienced next time.”

You won’t find someone with more experience with daemons than me, Atlas almost says.

“Of course,” Atlas lies, and knows that the others are aware of it.

* * *

It is, Atlas thinks, nice to sleep in his own bed when he returns to his apartment.

It’s nice to be home.

* * *

Atlas has the day off after he returns from his first deployment as a Glaive, and so the last thing he expects is to wind up running into Luche at the temple.

“You seem to come here a lot,” Atlas remarks as he enters the backroom where Luche is waiting for Kore.

Luche looks unamused. “Is there something wrong with that?” 

“Not at all, I just you just seem a more practical type of man.”

“I get that a lot,” Luche says, tone dry as winter, “You’d be surprised at how much.”

“I doubt it,” Atlas responds with a small smile tugging at his lips. Luche’s lips twitch upward in a smirk before fading back to a neutral expression.

A beat, and then Luche speaks again. “I’m grateful,” Luche says, “That you saved Tredd.”

“I’ve no doubt he could have handled it,” Atlas says, wide eyes the only thing betraying his shock, “I just saved him some trouble, that’s all.”

“Maybe, but I’m still grateful none the less.”

The sound of childrens voices, though muffled by the walls, soon fills the room.

“Ah,” Atlas says, “I have a class to teach. I’ll see you later, Lazarus.” 

* * *

When Atlas gets a call from Libertus of all people he stares at the caller ID on his cell for a second, wondering how Libertus got his number, before he sighs and presses the answer call button.

“Yes?” Atlas says, his tone polite.

“You free this weekend?” Libertus’ voice comes through the phone. “Got some people I want you to meet.”

Atlas raises an eyebrow. “I don’t have anything else I’ll be doing on Saturday,” he confirms, “But why?”

“I believe,” Libertus says and Atlas can hear the grin in his voice, “That it’s time you meet the clan.”

**Author's Note:**

> *slides this toward you*  
> *scurries off into the night


End file.
